


A Fine Chain

by takiki16



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Collars, F/M, Leashes, Light Dom/sub, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Imbalance, Royalty, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:57:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takiki16/pseuds/takiki16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caine Wise, disgraced ex-Skyjacker and convicted criminal, is suddenly inducted into the service of the enigmatic Queen Nea-Seraphi, mysterious new Recurrence and puzzle to the Entitled social circle.   While figuring out the boundaries of his new station, worrying about his old commander, and nursing old wounds from his court martial, Caine finds himself slowly being drawn into the confidence of his royal employer.  What could Her Majesty possibly want with a defective splice?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am his Highness' dog at Kew;  
> Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?  
> \- Epigram Engraved on the Collar of a Dog Which I Gave to His Royal Highness, by Alexander Pope

"Please, your Majesty, he's very dangerous. It might not be wise to….”

Royal glares had a definite sound.  The captain fell silent. 

Caine swallows, working his throat against the rubbery feeling of dehydration.  The muzzle is one solid piece, a half-mask strapped over his nose and under his chin, and the smell of the synthetic mesh and chemicals is smothering him.  He keeps his eyes on the floor.

A whisper of silk, the ripple of fabric just at the edges of his peripheral vision.  A stern female voice:

“And this is the one who attacked Pallas Korilath?

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Why?”

Captain Rhoden’s boots shuffled nervously beside him.  “We…ah, we don’t know.  We interrogated the prisoner, but he refused to say.” 

That wasn’t what had actually happened in the interrogation cell, but it hardly mattered _why_ he’d done it.  The accusation alone was enough to convict him five times over, and Stinger besides. 

_Stinger_.  Stinger had stepped in for him like a thrice-damned idiot, and his clipping was scheduled for the next day.  Couldn’t keep his head out of it, couldn’t leave well enough alone, couldn’t just acknowledge that Caine had been a hopeless case from the start…

“….don’t I try asking him?”

“Your Majesty –“Rhoden’s plea ended in a squeak.  “He’s a feral splice with a bad sequence.  With all due respect, these things usually aren’t handled by Entitled, and he’s scheduled to be – “

“ _Excuse me_?”

The room got tangibly colder.  Rhoden stopped breathing.  The pairs of boots to his left and right made an aborted twitch backwards.

“Are you insinuating, _Captain_ , that I am in any way unaware of my position or responsibilities?”

“No, Your Majesty, I…”

“Then perhaps you were referring to the length of my reign as Queen.”

A gulp.  “No, Your Majesty.” 

“Or maybe you were just insulting my intelligence directly.”

“N-no!  No, Your Majesty.  I beg your forgiveness.”

“Good.  Then you and your men can leave and let me speak to the prisoner alone.” 

“Please, Your Majesty…” Rhoden’s voice was definitely trembling now. If the Abrasax sovereign ended up as the next victim of the infamous freak lycantant, then his neck would be next on the chopping block. “I speak only in concern for your safety when I say –“

 “For crying out loud! You have him muzzled and cuffed to the floor.  I _highly_ doubt that he is going to manage to fight his way out of all of that and kill me in the next five minutes.  Now get out _.”_

“But –“

“ _Out!”_

Hurrying feet, pounding pulses, the click of the door sliding closed. 

It was just him and her majesty, now.

* * *

In the dead silence of the atrium his own stifled breathing sounded overwhelmingly loud; a wet, cloying thing that moistened the inner surface of the muzzle and forced more stale air back into his nose.  The Entitled – Her Majesty, Nea-Seraphi – was coming closer, walking forward with deliberate, slow steps to stop only a few feet in front of him.  He still hadn’t looked up at her.

“So.  You’re the one who attacked Lord Korilath at the Strivador portal.”

There was no point in answering her.  He was guilty, and they both knew it.  The queen huffed impatiently. 

“What’s your name?”

“Caine – “he swallowed, his tongue sticky and muffled.  “Caine W –“

“Oh, for goodness’ sake –“

And then she was crossing the space between them, and her hands were scrabbling at the straps of the muzzle.  Caine flinches back against the cuffs – he hadn’t welcomed outside touch since those first desperate years at the breeder’s, and the interrogation had not been pleasant.  But then she found the buckles, tugged at the release catches and...

Ah.   _Ah._

Air.  Fresh and sweet.  The world of scent and subtle taste that made up nearly half of a lycantant’s perception of the world.  Caine gulped in breath after breath, aware that he was panting and probably drooling like a dog in front of someone who could afford to have him ground up for Regenex fodder in a heartbeat, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.  He could breathe properly, smell properly, speak properly again.  Lycantants might be brute animals, but with the muzzle off it was easier to pretend he wasn’t.

“ _Thank you._ Thank you, your Majesty…”

“Don’t.”  Her voice was cold, coming again from a few feet away.  He heard the dull _thump_ of the muzzle being tossed aside.  “Tell me your name.”

“Caine Wise.”

“And you wouldn’t tell the Aegis why you bit Pallas?”

“I….”

The mag-cuffs chaining his ankles to the floor felt like they were cutting off his circulation, even through his boots.  What could he say?  That he had racked his brains every single night he spent in the holding cell, and he couldn’t come up with anything besides that sudden, violent impulse to _attack_?  That the space where Pallas Korilath’s mutilation should be was nothing but a blank?  That the judge was probably right, and he was nothing more than a defective product whose expiration date had finally come due?

“I…I don’t remember, Majesty.  I don’t know why I did it.  I can’t remember anything beyond…beyond seeing him in person for the first time.”

She hmm’d.  “Your commanding officer said you were under his orders when you did it.” 

Caine’s head snapped up.  “No!”

“No?”  Nea-Seraphi – the nets hadn’t lied about her beauty, he noted distantly– raised an elegant eyebrow. 

“No! No, please – “Caine jerks forward on his knees, barely registering the warning buzz of the shock lines in the cuffs – “Stinger – Commander Apini had nothing to do with it.  He only said it to protect me, he never issued any orders, I was acting completely of my own volition.”

“…really.”

“I swear!”

The queen has to understand this, she _has_ to.  It wasn’t Stinger’s fault, any of it, he can’t drag anyone else down into his black hole of a life.  Before he knows it, he’s shuffled forward as far as the mag-cuffs will let him, bowing forward so his forehead nearly rests against the cool deck surface.  Supplication – surely a royal would understand this.  If he could just get his hands free, take one of her hands, her ankles, kiss her feet, something – _anything_ – to make her understand that he’s the only one who needs to be punished here.

“Please.  Please _,_ Majesty, it wasn’t his fault, he doesn’t deserve to be clipped, it was all my fault.  _Please._ ”

Utter silence. 

Caine’s breathing is loud again, gasps that sound too much like sobs echoing back into his face where it is still pressed against the floor.  Under that layer of cloying royal perfume, he could smell her – traces of sweat, irritation…surprise? 

“…wow.”

Caine didn’t dare look up at the odd, un-Entitled expression. 

“You…plead his case pretty impressively, Mr. Wise.”

“He’s a good officer,” Caine rasps into the floor.  “A good man, one of the best.  Ask anyone.  He only covered for me because he felt guilty.  He doesn’t deserve the discharge.” 

“And you do?” Her gown makes a soft sound that must be her crossing her arms.  “I’ve seen your record.  What makes the difference between you two?” 

“I’m guilty. He isn’t.”

“We’ll see about that.  Eye contact, please”

Slowly, carefully, Caine looked up.

* * *

Nea-Seraphi looked less the languid, disaffected Entitled and more like the iron fist without the velvet glove. She was wrapped in a straight [sheath of grey, metallic silk](http://cdn-img.instyle.com/sites/default/files/styles/428xflex/public/images/2014/WRN/062014-mila-kunis-top-10-2-567_0.jpg?itok=X54E5LLI) that left her arms bare but her throat (thank the stars) covered.   Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun that left no gentle framing curls to soften the piercing glare of her dark eyes – eyes which were currently focused on Caine as though he were a particularly frustrating puzzle to be solved.  The matriarch of House Abrasax projected imperious command like a tangible field around her. 

No retinue, though.  No attendant seneschals or pages, no guards, not even a servantant.  She had chosen to meet with a violent, defective splice alone.  Caine fights down an absurd surge of protective indignation.  He doesn’t have any business worrying about what Her Majesty chooses to do with her safety; Stinger’s clipping gets closer by the hour, and only a royal edict would move with the speed needed to save him.

“That’s better.”  A hint of wry amusement.  “So.  You can’t tell me why you bit Lord Korilath.”

Caine takes a deep breath.  “No.”

“You have no idea why you did it.”

 “No.”

“And you aren’t going to ask for lenience in your sentence.”

“No, Majesty.”  Why bother?  Stinger is certainly never going to want to see him again, and he certainly won’t survive his gene-debt in the Deadlands.  Hell, maybe he’ll just lie down and relax when the prison transport dumps him on the surface.  Enjoy five minutes of knowing there is nothing more he can do before some other criminal comes along and slits his throat.  He is so very tired. 

“But you _will_ ask for lenience for your commander.”

 “ _Please._   He’s the best officer any of us on his company ever had.  He’s worth – “More than Caine Wise.  More than ten of Caine Wise, and certainly more than a passing attempt to drag out a death sentence.

“ – worth a lot.  To the Legion.  His commission would more than pay for itself, if he were pardoned.” 

“Is that why you’re so concerned for Commander Apini’s welfare, Mr. Wise?  So he can pay back the worth of his commission?” 

“He…Commander Apini…he was good to me.  I owe him a debt.”

“You must care for him a great deal, then, to ask for his safety before your own.”  The odd note is in her voice again.  She sounds faintly incredulous, as though she couldn’t ever understand the idea of caring for – of _loving_ someone else that much.  Typical Abrasax.   “If I order his discharge revoked, your sentence to the Deadlands automatically reverts to immediate execution.” 

“He’s my friend, Majesty.  I don’t want to see him hurt.” 

There it is.  That is everything he has, all his cards on the table, his soft underbelly bared to the mercy of one of the most vicious predators in the gyre.  Caine chokes down a whimper as Nea-Seraphi’s eyes travel slowly over him.  The silence in the room is a palpable thing, tense and humming like the moment before a drop.  If Her Majesty decides to destroy him now, to cut down Stinger despite everything, he won’t even get to take his pride intact into the Deadlands. 

But…no.  An indefinable _something_ changes in her face, some internal decision made.  Her Majesty takes a short, sharp breath.  “Guards!”

Caine has a full three seconds worth of despair as Captain Rhoden and his escort come barreling back in.  It must show on his face, because Nea-Seraphi raises a hand.  “I’ll speak to the judge about Commander Apini’s sentence.  In the meantime…”

She snaps her fingers, pointing.  Rhoden’s men yank him up from his knees, de-magnetizing the ankle cuffs and hauling him towards the door at the other end of the court vessel’s atrium.   The queen strides elegantly away in the other direction, her voice floating carelessly back over her shoulder as he tries to turn and hear:

“…consider yourself under _my_ jurisdiction, Mr. Wise.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title “Nea-Seraphi” comes from a WIP anonymous kinkmeme fill (http://jakink.dreamwidth.org/724.html?thread=19156#cmt19156). If the author wishes me to stop using the title or to credit them by name, drop me a line in the comments. 
> 
> If Jupiter seems a bit OOC, there is good reason – her character has been through a significantly different set of circumstances than the movie. Think Dinner-with-Titus!Jupiter: extremely formal, cold, and defensive. I have plans to include at least one of the Abrasax siblings, but there is a good chance all three of our lovely trash trio will be included.
> 
> Comments are much loved and appreciated either here or on tumblr at takiki16!


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as they slam the door behind him, Caine crashes.  Hard.

The new cell is worlds bigger than his torturously tiny court oubliette.  First glance reveals a bed, with a simple chair and porthole.  A fold-down desk against the wall.   To his left there is what looks like a door into a small bathroom. 

He wishes he could appreciate all of it, because the bed has a mattress, with actual _blankets_ and _pillows_.  Real, proper washable ones too, not the rubbery Legion shit that had to be returned and reconstituted every sleep cycle. He doesn’t think he’s ever had a bathroom to himself. 

Nea-Seraphi must not consider him a threat, to surround him with luxuries like this. 

Her mistake.  The blanket could be twisted up and used for strangling, as could the pillows.  The chair is a perfect blunt weapon for a soldier with his muscle.  All of the furniture could probably yield up some useful sharp parts, given enough time and determination.  If he hid to the side of the door and ambushed a guard coming into the cell, he stood a fair chance of breaking out into the body of the ship. 

That is, if he weren’t a twitching mess lying facedown on the floor

Caine curls himself into the comparative shelter of a corner and _shakes_ , deep breaths going in and out in an attempt to get a handle on the stew of stress chemicals in his system.  Fuck.  Ah gods, fuck.  Stupid green fledge, stupid pup, _Stinger_.  He was talking to the queen about Stinger.  Stinger is going to be clipped.  _No_ , Stinger is going to be fine.  She said she would – what were her exact words?  Entitled like specificity, they like splitting hairs and hiring armies of advocates and drawing up contracts, and now he’s gone and got himself involved with one so he has to know _exactly_ what she said about Stinger _what did she say you idiot?!_

_I’ll speak to the judge about Commander Apini’s sentence_.

Speak?  Speak to the judge?  What the hell was that supposed to mean?  That could mean anything – I’ll invite the judge to my alcazar for a drink, I’ll send word with a servantant, I’ll make sure that the troublesome _apid_ officer gets offed right away.  Oh stars, she could have lied.  She lied.  She _lied,_ like all Entitled do, and she isn’t really going to do anything.  Stinger is going to have to walk into that echoing, merciless courtroom that smells of anxiety and disinfectant, and he is going to have to kneel down in front of their entire century of Skyjackers and a Court Justice is going to grab hold of those beautiful humming wings and _pull_ , and it is going to hurt oh god it hurts I’m sorry I’m sorry merciful stars _make it stop…_

_I’m sorry, Stinger.  I’m so, so sorry._

Caine bites viciously down on his lip and slams a fist into the floor as hard as he can.  Then he does it again, for good measure. 

Commonwealth date 50034.3.58, Orusian time around 1500.  Held aboard Abrasax flagship in custody of Her Majesty Queen Nea-Seraphi Abrasax, matriarch of her House and current commission executor.  He is here and safe, for now.  He is _not_ back in court.  He can’t afford to fall apart into a useless whimpering puppy just because he’s worried and his back hurts.

He takes another deep breath and holds it for a count of five.  Breathes out, slowly.  In.  Out.  In.  Out. Get it together, Wise.  Status report. 

His back.  Stars, his back _hurts._

Ever since his clipping, he’s been running on a shaky mix of fear, worry, and shock adrenalin.  He’d passed out in court when the last shards of his wings had been yanked away, and the first thing he heard upon return to full consciousness was that Stinger had claimed responsibility for the attack.  The sheer, sickening panic he’d felt had been enough to keep him on his feet until being waylaid by the queen.  But now that he has a moment of quiet isolation to process it all, Caine becomes excruciatingly aware of two twin points of pain at his shoulder blades.

_Fuck!_   

Gritting his teeth, Caine puts one hand against the floor and pushes.  Hands.  Then knees.  Then feet, one at a time, using the wall for support.  He has flown at dizzying heights and breathtaking speeds, trekked over a hundred klicks through hostile territory in pursuit of a target, fought for days on end through battles vicious enough to turn the stomachs of the most toughened soldiers in the galaxy, but the simple task of getting up seems bigger than all of them right now.

_Come on, pup.  I know you’ve got more in you than that._

* * *

 

The bathroom (and it is a bathroom, with a shower stall that dispenses real, honest-to-god H2O, fucking hell) has a mirror above the sink.  Caine peels his dirty shirt off, wincing with every catch against the tender spots on his back, and cranes his neck over his shoulder to look at the damage in the mirror behind him.

He almost throws up.

Two gleaming metal circles wink out of the flesh of his back, each about the circumference of his wrist.  Patches of ugly scab tissue are scattered piecemeal around them, where the synthetic skin bridges for the wings were torn away.  The area around both wounds is a raw, angry red – they must have given him just enough ReCell to stop the immediate bleeding once they dragged him out of the courtroom. 

The rest of his upper back and shoulders is dark with bruising.  Makes sense, he thinks, with a nauseated kind of detachment.  The court justice clearly didn’t remove the entire limbic integration system for the wings, or he’d be dead – hence the metal studs.  But ripping out the bionic appendages would have caused enough trauma to his natural bones and muscles that there would be a significant amount of damage.

It’s not bad, it’s horrific.  It’s damning.  It is a literal sign on his back, spelling out loud and clear to the gyre what he once was, and what he failed to be. Clipped and stripped – tossed out of the only pack he’d ever known and dragging down the best of them with him.  Caine Wise, eternal fuckup.

He swallows hard, turning back towards the sink to hide the mangled tissue.  It turns out to be a strategical error on his part, because the front view isn’t much better.

He looks like shit.  There are dark circles under his eyes from the last couple days of sleeplessness, which makes his freakishly pale lycantant coloring even worse.  The bruises from his interrogation are beginning to swell, and there are pressure marks over his nose and cheek from the muzzle.  His lip is bleeding from where he bit himself earlier.  Over everything there is a nice, healthy layer of prison grime.

_Fuck_.  And this is what the queen saw, when Caine asked for Stinger’s pardon.  He looks like the kind of lowlife criminal that wasn’t even worth a bribe in the Commonwealth – sniveling, cringing, _pathetic_.  No wonder she wouldn’t tell him anything. 

_…consider yourself under_ my _jurisdiction, Mr. Wise._

Caine punches the button for water – water for washing, and off-planet too, stars – and promptly forgoes rinsing his face in order to drink several messy mouthfuls straight from the faucet.  He’d forgotten how thirsty he was.

The shirt is too dirty to be of much use, and the little bathroom is absolutely bare of anything that might serve as a washcloth.  He could take one of the blankets off the bed, but the part of him that still shudders at the winter and seaboard campaigns he’s done balks at getting his field gear wet.  Besides, the guards might come for him again. It wouldn’t do to seem too much at home.  In the end, Caine settles for splashing and rubbing off the worst of the grime, and trickling water gingerly over the mess of his back.    

He can’t lose it again.  Can’t whine, can’t beg, can’t throw himself on the mercy of Entitled and then expect them to be merciful.  For the sake of everything Stinger has ever done for him, he has to act like an actual, thinking person.

Or maybe he shouldn’t. 

Caine freezes in the middle of trying to ease his shirt back over his tender shoulders.  Maybe he shouldn’t.  Maybe what he needs to do is play up the rabid dog.  Show his teeth, lash out at random, prove that Stinger couldn’t possibly have issued orders to such a badly bred soldier.  He certainly groveled enough like a dog when he met Her Majesty; if she summons him again, she’ll have no problem believing that he simply snapped and bit Lord Korilath out of brute lycantant instinct. 

But Stinger has always caught a bit of heat for keeping an anomaly like Caine in his unit.  If the queen thinks to blame him for not keeping a tight leash…

He doesn’t know.  He doesn’t know what the queen is thinking, why she took him on, why he isn’t dead or in the brig of a transport bound for the Deadlands.  He doesn’t even know the time – his boots were the only things that he was allowed to keep after his arrest, and only because the Legion released their deactivation code to the court bailiff.  Stinger could be under interrogation right now.  They could be cuffing his hands to the bars, barking questions in his face, shining those glaring bright lamps into his eyes.  Shouldn’t do that to _apids,_ to any of the insectoids – the compound iris gene is sensitive and valuable for ‘jacker pilots. Stinger always got headaches after the brilliant strobes of Orusian nightlife…

_Stinger._ Stinger would be grim and professional, like he always was when things got really, really bad, and that would make them angry.  They would start with their fists, and then when he was down they would use their boots and their electro prods and…and…

Caine clamps down on the returning panic, digging a sharp canine into the cut on his lip.  He can’t think about that right now.  Can’t fall apart.  The queen is going to speak to the judge, and he is going to see her again and plead his case better, and then Stinger will be released.  He will.  He _will_.  Nea-Seraphi must have taken him for a reason, or why else would he be locked in here. 

He walks stiffly out of the bathroom, sitting down on the bed and settling in to face the door.

The queen will see him again.  Stinger will be fine.  He will do better. 

He will.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Jupiter. Slow burn. The sweet, sweet slow burn that I so love reading and have such difficulty writing. Darn worldbuilding. Sorry about the lack of actual plot development in this chapter; I am having more difficulty than expected not turning this fic into a long, self-indulgent wallow in Caine Wise whump.


	3. Chapter 3

One good thing about shipboard prisons – the loud, distinctive approach of boots on deck.

Caine squares his shoulders and takes one last deep breath as the door to his cell bangs open.  Ten security guards in the deep purple of Nea-Seraphi’s household file in, steps too perfect and synchronized to be organic.  The smell of synth-oil wafts out from under their cloaks.

A tall, sinewy humanoid with dappled green skin and deep-set, elongated eyes walks forward in their wake.  Caine’s nose tells him _splice_ , possibly _ikran/_ human, definitely better fed and kept than he is.    He shifts warily, noting the fine, long finger bones and the shining filigree of jewels over their luxurious purple court robes.  The sleeves are loose and open to allow for expansion of the wing membranes.

Not someone who’s here to beat information out of him, then.  A court retainer

                “Her Majesty requires your presence,” the ikrantant announces calmly.  Their second eyelid blinks.  “You are advised to come peacefully.”

As one, the guards raise their arms and train their cannons at him.

Caine comes peacefully.

 

* * *

 

Queen Nea-Seraphi’s throne room on board the Abrasax flagship is everything a throne room should be; immense, beautiful, intimidating.  Huge arch windows are cut out of the length of the dark-paneled walls, allowing for a breathtaking view of the stars.  An antique red fabric carpet runs the long length of the room to the foot of the throne, muffling the footsteps of the party on approach.  The queen herself is sitting on an ornate fermionic lounge at the far end, looking impatient at the time it takes them to cross.  At least Caine isn’t the only one who thinks that the walk should be shorter. 

The ikrantant leaves them at the door.  There are about twelve more Abrasax guards arranged on either side of the aisle, with three court bailiffs in Aegis black.  One of them – the ranking officer, by the looks of him – stands at the queen’s left.  In his hands he holds a black briefcase.

Caine swallows. 

“He’s here.”  The queen leans back and taps an elegantly manicured finger on one arm of the lounge.  “Let’s get this over with.”

“With pleasure, your majesty.”  The senior bailiff makes a comically deep bow.  “This will only take a moment.  I expect that we will have you back to your alcazar well ahead of schedule, and I humbly beg pardon for this brief inconvenience – “

“ _Officer.”_

“Ah…yes.” The bailiff clears his throat.  “Apologies.  If you would kindly stand for the reading of the settlement?”

 _Settlement_.  Settlement, not verdict.  Private audience, not courtroom.  Caine feels his pulse speeding up as Nea-Seraphi stands.  Stinger.  The discharge.  _She did something._

The bailiff raises a hand and clicks his fingers importantly.  One of the court guards, primed for the moment, runs forward and takes the case, offering it back for opening on outstretched palms.  Reaching into it, the bailiff draws out a sheave embossed with the Orusian court sigil.  He takes a deep breath, red face puffing up like a mating bird, and reads aloud:

“By the decree of the Commonwealth of Orus, date 50034.3.58 Orusian standard, the convict Caine Wise, former Legionnaire of the 75th ‘Skyjacker’ regiment, shall have his sentence of life without parole in the penitentiary systems of Syntrix-12 remanded to a life of service in private custody.  It is also ordered that his gene-commission shall be hereby transferred to Her Majesty, Queen Nea-Seraphi of the House of Abrasax, first primary executive and shareholder thereof, to be held until Her Majesty shall have no further need of the asset and shall dispose of it as Her Majesty deems fit.”

So it isn’t Deadlands, then.  Caine sucks in a breath, but doesn’t relax just yet.  Stinger.  _What about Stinger, you useless bloated gut-eater?_

“In accordance with this decree,” the bailiff reads on, puffing up even more, “the Commonwealth mandates the use of a protective personal device for use by Her Majesty Nea-Seraphi, to remain on the subject at all times and to be under the exclusive control of Her Majesty.  The Commonwealth so decrees the necessity of such a device in consideration of the subject’s most grievous offense against a shareholder, the faulty nature of his genetic sequence, and the naturally violent psychological makeup of his species.  Should the device be removed, the Commonwealth shall hold itself _not_ accountable for any personal loss or property damage incurred as a result of the subject’s subsequent actions.  It is so ordered.”

The bailiff sets the sheave back in the case, then draws a pair of disposable plastimold gloves out of his pocket.  He wiggles them on, snapping them dramatically for effect, then reaches back into the court briefcase and takes out a circlet made of some dark, metallic material, as thick as two of Caine’s fingers held together.  He holds it out to the queen with a little flourish.

 _Oh stars._ The bottom of his stomach drops out, the sickening lurch of gravity dragging a troop ship down from orbit.  _Oh no, no, no…_  

 “I am authorized to give you all the necessary safety briefings for use of the protective personal device,” the bailiff says grandly.  “If your majesty will bring the subject forward?  He is under your jurisdiction now,” the bailiff adds, as the queen shoots him an unimpressed look.  “It is best to establish singular allegiance early.”

Nea-Seraphi looks disdainful of the request, but turns with her customary cold elegance.  For the first time since the atrium, she looks Caine directly in the eye.  Glares, in fact.  Straightens her back, squares her chin.  Without any visible adjustment on her part, she stands taller.  Textbook dominance protocol position for lycantants.  _Fuck._

“Approach, Mr. Wise.” 

The dais is several meters in front of him.  Caine drags his feet every step of the way.

“Kneel.” 

Slowly, Caine drops to one knee.  He feels the familiar pull around his ankles and wrists as the mag-cuffs reattach to the floor.  At some hand movement in the air, three guards tromp forward; two at either side, one behind.  He clenches his jaw, trying to tamp down the quaver in his gut.

“If you would, Your Majesty.”  The bailiff is speaking again.  “We apologize for the inconvenience, but the device requires a personalized biosignature from the primary commission executor upon first application.”  Another unseen gesture.  “The catch should be just by your thumb, there.” 

A mechanical _snikt_.  The soft footfalls of a pair of expensive shoes, descending the steps of the dais towards him.

_Don’t.  Please, I don’t need this, I don’t need it, I’ll be good…_

“Press your thumb into the impression by the seal and speak your full name and title.”

Caine is trembling all over now, just the slightest of tense movements that he can’t suppress for all his experience and all his training.  _I’ll do whatever you want, just save Stinger…_

“Queen Nea-Seraphi Abrasax, Chief Primary Executive of the House of Abrasax.”

Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, no pack, no weapons, no _wings_ to save him…

 “Around the neck, Majesty.    Once the device is sealed, no one will be able to remove it but you.”

_Please…_

The collar locks into place around his neck with a soft metallic click. 

 

* * *

 

Cool, smooth metal.  The scent of flowers, layered and subtle.  Nea-Seraphi’s hands withdrawing, a brief brush of skin on skin.  He can’t help it.  He flinches away.

Just under the swell of his throat, beneath where his pulse beats fast and frantic, there rests a light metal ring.  An unbreakable, inescapable loop that feels like it weighs enough to sink him down through the floor and into the void.  Caine gasps and grinds his wrists against the mag-cuffs on the floor, aware that he is going to leave bruises but he can’t _help_ it.  He can’t.  Take it off, please please take it _off,_ I hate it, I don’t _need_ it, I’ll be a good soldier, a good dog…

“Are we done here, Officer?” 

“The personal protective device is in place, Your Majesty.”  The bailiff rattles around in his briefcase, no doubt fishing out some more paperwork.  “However, there is one more item on the agenda…”

Collared like a damn animal, like a pet, like a vicious, stupid, _wingless_ criminal who doesn’t know any better.  If his old cohort could see him now… 

Caine is aware that he is shaking, that his eyes are wet, and he wills himself not to let the sounds out.  He hasn’t cried since his first few cycles at the farm, and he isn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction now.  At least there aren’t any other splices present.  If there were, he doesn’t think he could bear the shame.  _Glad I was bred better than that albino mutt.  Doesn’t even have the sequences for higher brain functions.  Stay away from dogs like that, little ones, or they’ll collar you too…_

“…only take a few moments.” says the bailiff’s voice.  “May we proceed to the practical demonstration?” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to gallifreyburning for the beta!
> 
> Ikran are those dragon/bird/lizard creatures from James Cameron's Avatar. I wanted to use a pre-existing animal so that people could have better visualization. 
> 
> On that note, let me heartily apologize for taking so long to update. You are all wonderful readers, and I don't deserve you. To every person who has bookmarked this fic, given kudos, commented, or simply marked it in their browsers and checked on it once in a while - thank you. Yes, you. I am a horrible lazy author and should treat you better.
> 
> Next chapter: the practical demonstration of the collar, and hopefully some insight into the title of the fic!


	4. Chapter 4

Distantly, Caine hears the rows of synth guards step away, lining themselves up in front of the dais.   The queen has retreated as well, standing a few steps above him.  Only her feet are visible, but Caine didn’t want to raise his head.  The bailiff was fiddling with something metallic. 

“The personal protective device has built-in safeguards against attack or escape, as you are doubtless aware.  Standard procedure would be to implant a tracking chip, but for certain classes of offense it is considered prudent to have a more visible reminder.  We have also found that lycantant subjects respond particularly well to physical stimuli around the cervical vertebrae.  The device has full audiovisual capabilities of course, and -”

“Is there a point to this lecture, or do you intend to show me something?”  

“Absolutely, your majesty.  You will be able to remotely control the functions of the personal – “

“ _Collar_.  Say collar.  If you’re going to waste my time, use fewer words.”

“Of course.”  The bailiff sounds vaguely peeved.  “The…collar.  You will be able to remotely control its functions so that your person and your property are protected at all times.  If you would order him to run, Your Majesty?”

“Order him to _what?”_

“To run.  The device can be calibrated for a variety of distances, at Your Majesty’s discretion.”

The queen huffs impatiently.  “Is all of this necessary?”

“Oh no, Majesty.  The…the collar will function as intended whether it is tested now or at a later date.  But it is standard procedure to demonstrate these things early on, so as to discourage any…rebellious leanings.”

_Rebellious leanings._ Caine’s whole body feels like a heavy lodestone of hatred and despair.  The collar burns against his throat.

“If it gets you off my ship any faster.  Mr. Wise!”

Caine looks up. 

The queen is standing at the top of the dais, turning what looks like a bracelet between her fingers.  She gives him a sharp look, and gestures with her hand.  The mag-cuffs fall to the floor.  One of the bailiff’s assistants types something into his wrist comm and – miracle of miracles – Caine feels his boots hum to life again on his feet.

_Oh, big mistake, Majesty._

 “Run the length of the hall, please –“

He is exploding off the floor before the queen finishes speaking, digging viciously into the red carpet and channeling all the power he can into the soles of his boots.  _Free._   No more cuffs or chains or bars, and soon he’ll find Stinger, just like he always does, Caine is the best at finding people…

The bailiff’s voice drifts faintly up to him, inconsequential.  “As you can see, the audiovisual feed –“

He’ll find Stinger, and Stinger will take the collar off and make it right, and then they’ll come back and somehow get their revenge on the bailiff and House Abrasax… 

“…in case of any danger, your Majesty can…”

Or maybe he’ll just circle back now and kill them all, he’s done it enough.

“…press down…”

He’ll drop from above, and then –

“…there.”

_Shit!_

White-hot pain crackles down Caine’s spine.  He chokes in the air, twisting and seizing as every nerve in his body catches fire.  The hum in his boot soles sputtered and died, a distant warning call behind the agony burning out everything else.  _Plasma shock_ , he thinks dimly.  _From the collar.  Shorted out the power cell._

Think.  Think fast, ignore the – _fuck –_ ignore the pain.  Free fall.  He is in free fall – the familiar nauseous feeling in his gut. He should probably start extending his primaries, getting ready to glide to the floor, because if he stays curled up in this stupid fetal position he will fall flat on his back, and that will be bad.

Only he can’t do that, can he?  Because he doesn’t have _wings._

He doesn’t

Fucking

Have

_Wings._  

The slate-grey deck rushes up to meet him.  Caine tries to twist in midair for a shoulder roll, but there isn’t _quite_ enough space and his veins have been filled with lightning, and he’s hitting the ground and he _screamed_ because it –

* * *

 

… _hurts.  It hurts.  It can’t possibly last much longer._

_The Court Justice has been tearing at his wings for what feels like hours.  His throat gave out long before that.  To the left of the pillory one of the long line of uniforms bends over and loses their lunch.  That would be Melyusk, he thinks dimly.  The rookie.  Poor pup, barely fledged, so eager to earn his wings.  Caine had long since heaved up the watery bile that remained in his own stomach._

_The Justice gives a particularly excruciating wrench, and he croaks out a pathetic sound, watching the feathers float to the floor in front of his face.  Make it stop, make it stop, make it…_

* * *

 

” – stop, officer, he’s had enough!”

“The device isn’t active anymore, Your Majesty, the subject must be having a bad reaction.”  The sound of panic, pounding feet.  “Your Majesty, I sincerely apologize if the Commonwealth has in any way damaged your property, and if you would give me time to summon an advocate –“

Someone is making noise.  Someone is making a very loud noise.  The noise goes on and on, wailing into the air like a medivac siren.  He supposes that the person making the noise might be him. 

 “Get _out_.  You’ve done enough.”  A familiar silk ripple.  “Get a sedative, he’s going to hurt himself.”

No.  No more drugs.  No more interrogation.  No more.  Caine opens his mouth to tell them that he confessed, that he’s guilty, but the ship is doing sudden barrel rolls and he squeezes his eyes shut and lets the g-force push him over the edge into unconsciousness. 

* * *

 

The world is dark and soft when he wakes up.

_Few too many, eh pup?_

For a few moments, Caine can do nothing but lie still and struggle with the simple act of consciousness.  The world swims back to him in slow, dizzying waves, light looming and receding with the dull beat of his pulse.  His body aches.  He is lying face down.  He is lying face down on something soft – a pillow?  A bed?   Cool air on his arms and lower back – no shirt or blanket, then.  Something itchy is stuck to his back.  And something nearby smells _good_. 

               The cooling ration bar by his bed is halfway down his throat before he remembers to check for drugs, almost choking on the starchy texture as he tried to smell and swallow at the same time.  He hadn’t realized how long it had been since his last meal. 

               His last meal…before Queen Nea-Seraphi bought out his sentence.

               The memories rush back to him at the same time as Caine remembers the metal around his neck.  Summoning.  Debt transfer.  Plasma shock, just so he would know who was in charge here.

Caine swallows the last of the ration bar, anger and fear welling back up.  He’d taken a hard fall, landed belly-up like the greenest of fledges, probably fucked up his back even more, damn it.

_Speaking of which…._

He cranes his neck to look down his back – slowly.  The edge of a beige synthskin bandage peeps out over one shoulder.  Odd.  Synthskin was an archaic emergency stopgap measure, a quick patch until the patient could be transported to the nearest source of ReCell.  Caine only knew synthskin by sight because he’d seen infantry use it near the tail end of some longer battles. 

_Guessing you don’t qualify for the good stuff anymore, do you splice?  Not with that shiny collar round your neck._

Stupid thought.  Stupid fledge.  It doesn’t matter now.  Shoving aside both the pain and the thought, Caine pushes himself up into a sitting position.  He moves to swing his feet off the bed; they felt odd, light, almost as if…

Of course.  They took his boots.

It wasn’t as though he hadn’t expected it, Caine thinks over the sudden lump of despair in his stomach.  Skyjacker boots were like wings – tailored specifically to individual Legionnaires, and impossible to access for those who weren’t ‘Jackers or didn’t have the funds to tweak the legal system.  If he had been tossed into Deadland to serve out the remainder of his sentence, the Aegis would have taken his boots as well.  Really, it was amazing that he’d managed to keep them so long. 

Deep breaths.  It didn’t matter.  His wings were gone.  He might as well lose the boots, too – he isn’t a Skyjacker anymore.  Caine puts his bare feet carefully down on the ground, flinching a little at the unfamiliar feeling of cold ground, and takes stock.

They brought him back to the empty room he’d been left in after meeting the queen.  Someone had opened a panel in the wall by the bed, revealing a basic nutrition unit with a timer blinking on the interface panel.  Apparently he gets rations three times per Orus standard day, which is vaguely comforting. 

Caine licks his fingers, chasing the last of the taste.  A basic block of calories and vitamins, mixed with a cocktail of inosinates, fats, and sugars to make the bar taste and smell appealing.  A canid formula – no, a _lycantant_ formula, prepared specifically for his genome.  The Legion mess halls were built to accommodate a dizzying range of digestive systems and metabolisms; Caine would press his thumb to the scanner above the dispenser for rations.  He remembered the constant worry that someone at the table would grab his meal.  Stinger used to laugh at how fast he ate. 

               _Ain’t none of the rest of us interested in your food, pup.  We can’t promise much, but we won’t starve you._

               _Stinger_.  Stupid, stupid pup.  Caine had meant to ask the queen about when she’d done for Stinger’s sentence, but he’d forgotten the more important problems in favor of selfish worry.  By now, surely the time for Stinger’s clipping was soon.  Caine jerks up from the bed, wobbling back and forth across the room. 

               _You’ve really fucked it up now, haven’t you Wise?  For the only friend you’ve ever had._

* * *

 

               The knock at the door makes him jump, lost in the funk of self-recrimination and just plain exhaustion.  Caine freezes, unsure of what to do until the lock light blinks to green and the door slides open.

               It’s the ikrantant again, accompanied by the same retinue of Abrasax synths.  This time, at a quiet signal from them, the synths fall back to wait outside the door. 

               “I come with a message from her Majesty,” said the ikrantant.  “She wishes you to know that Stinger Apini’s sentence has been reduced to a demotion and an official reprimand.”

               It was as if he’d taken a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  Relief sweeps through his body, releasing days of tension and misery and fear.  Stinger would be okay.  _Stinger would be okay._

               “Thank you,” he rasps, trying desperately for some semblance of proper gratitude.  Kneel.  He really should kneeling – or was it against protocol for an un-Entitled?  At some point his body had decided to sit down on the bed and refuse to move.  “My…my eternal thanks to the queen for her mercy.”

               The ikrantant arches an elegant green brow.  Their eyes fall on the collar, then flick politely away.  “I will convey your thanks to Her Majesty.  In the meantime, she wishes you to stay here until your injuries have fully healed.  You will receive further instructions after your recovery.” 

               With a swish of shimmering silk, the ikrantant turns and sails out of the room.  The door locks behind them, and Caine hears the _tromp-tromp_ of synthetic boots fading away down the hall.  He shivers, drowning in an overwhelming mix of relief, joy…and fear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two. Whole. Darn. Years. If any of you out there are still reading this, you are TROOPERS and deserve medals and a thousand apologies from a lazy author. 
> 
> I made some minor continuity edits in Chapter 1, and I'm tentatively considering occasional Jupiter POV chapters as well. They will be short and cryptic and deliberately unhelpful for figuring out plotty things I want to keep hidden, but I don't want to neglect our lovely space queen. Feel free to yell at me in the tags, because TWO LONG YEARS. You guys stuck with me while I dragged myself through our heroes' traumatizing introduction, and now I hope I can start us on this road properly. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta, gallifreyburning, who kindly reminds me about basic writing things like verb tenses. You are THE BEST!


End file.
